


temple in between those thighs

by personalized_radio



Category: UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Consent, M/M, Religious Guilt, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role), and clayton sharpe is the local supernatural entity to do it to em, no actual smut (im as surprised as u are), the good reverend wants to get xxxx'ed down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:49:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22122115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/personalized_radio/pseuds/personalized_radio
Summary: Matthew knew of Clayton Sharpe before any of this wild nonsense got started, just as Sharpe hadknownhim.
Relationships: Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	temple in between those thighs

**Author's Note:**

> i started this when ep 1 first aired, and then totally forgot about it and then found it and finished it up literally tonight lmao anyway undeadwood was amazing and i wish there had been more and that the dice had played out just a little bit differently
> 
> also i wish everyone was a sexy sexy supernatural entity

Matthew knew of Clayton Sharpe before any of this wild nonsense got started, just as Sharpe had _known_ him.

-

Matthew Mason is not one to condemn. No soul is pure, beloved as it may be by the Father; particularly his. Matthew is definitely not...definitely not pure.

What Matthew needs is not what a pure soul needs. What Matthew wants is not what a pure soul wants. What Matthew _does_ is not what a pure soul does.

-

Matthew is not a virgin. He comes into his faith at a later age than many others in his position and, as such, is more worldly in some ways, if more naive in others.

-

Clayton Sharpe is a man of few words and even less patience. He speaks with his silence in a way Matthew has never really had to translate before.

When he says _come_ through that silence, it is not a request and he is not going to say it again.

Matthew always comes.

-

Matthew can't explain how it starts.

He is aching in the soul by the time he escapes to Deadwood. The grim charcoaled church, the lack he is leaving behind, the hole inside of him _hurts_. It all hurts, and while he is no stranger to pain, it is not a crown he wears with ease, either.

Not a weight he can bear without help, the kind of which he is sure will never be found in the likes of Deadwood -

-

Sure until he sets eyes on Clayton Sharpe, standing by his horse in the dusty road, drinking deeply from his canteen, hat hanging from a thin cord around his neck.

Sensing eyes, Sharpe looks around as he shoves a leather-gloved palm across his mouth and finds Matthew.

They stare, caught in a prolonged moment as Matthew aches and yearns and a predator scents the seeping blood and pus of the wound.

Sharpe smirks, a simple quirk of a lip, and turns away.

Matthew goes back to sorting through the remains of his new home.

-

For the first time since glimpsing the ruined steeple of the church and the broken out glass of what was surely once a beautiful work of art above the doors of the temple of God, he can breathe.

-

Matthew resists for a number of days and nights. He prays, he works hard at cleaning up the church. He is doing so alone, except for a handful of believers who do not meet his eye but do sweep and collect ruined wood under his care. He has a job and a mission and, really, very little time to worry about flights of fancy.

He has held this pain for years; since he joined the faith, and while the desecrated grounds have ripped him apart, he does not want to break vows so freshly taken.

-

And then he is sitting in the chapel, alone for the night, single candle in hand as he rests on his knees. There is a creak outside and then the slow, certain beats of boots on wood.

The sounds stop yards from behind him and Matthew looks up for guidance but the first to go when the looting began was the bronze statue of the Lord and Savior he is sure once stood at the altar.

He turns his head, sees one Clayton Sharpe, and feels his will shudder under the weight of a gaze.

"I hear you." Sharpe says simply, not looking anymore smug than if he were pointing out the weather. "You project all over town. It's kinda embarrassing."

Matthew flushes and says nothing. He is not surprised that someone like Sharpe could sense it, his weakness. Sharpe was good, though, to come to him instead of waiting for Matthew to break and seek him out first.

Sharpe hooks a thumb over his shoulder, toward the door and then turns and leaves.

Matthew, no words needed, follows.

-

Matthew lives in the back of the church. It is a modest room, with a kitchen in one corner and his bed in the opposite. He has a small table from which he eats, and three chairs for when he has guests, and a large cabinet where he hangs his clothes and stores what few personal belongings he has allowed himself to keep.

It is simple, but it is the life he wants now. What he has been searching for his whole life - found in the simple living of a simple reverend.

Sharpe looks at home in the dusty room. He lit Matthew's oil lantern as soon as he strolled in, like he owns the place, and the light casts deep shadows around the room and across Sharpe's person.

Matthew watches, transfixed. Shadows are appealing, for all that he tries to now live in the light.

-

It happens again the next week, and the week after. By all accounts, Sharpe has _known him_ thrice by the time they are officially introduced in the upper room of the bar after his first sermon.

Each time, Sharpe leaves and Matthew watches him go and yearns for when next they will come to each other. The ache in him is satisfied for the moment and Sharpe seems to show up exactly when it flares into unbearable.

-

But that first time is...something. Is still overwhelming to think about.

-

Shadows are appealing.

Sharpe scrapes the legs of a chair along the floor as he pulls it out and sits. He looks comfortable, like he could belong in any roughly made wooden chair in the town.

Matthew feels out of sorts in his own home, though, to be fair, it has only been so for a number of days now.

"You called." Sharpe speaks up, voice as bored as a voice could be.

"Did I?" Matthew finds enough words to say, "I don't recall sending for you."

"Ha." Sharpe stares at him from under the rim of his hat, dark and heated, "Funny guy, huh? Let's try again. You. Called?"

Matthew does _not_ find enough words to try to lie again.

He shifts, smooths his hands down the front of his robe, swallows and feels his collar bob obviously.

"I didn't mean to, I should say." He finally relents.

"But ya did."

"But I did."

Sharpe looks around casually, tilts back so he balances on two legs. "Surprised a holy man like yourself would be hollerin' so loud for the likes a' me."

"Yes, well…" Matthew dithers, "I'm surprised to see one of your kind in a place like Deadwood."

"We make do all over." Sharpe quirks his lip in that smirk again. "Meetings such as these 'n' all."

It isn't said to calm, but Matthew still finds a cool comfort in knowing he isn't the only one in town with this kind of need.

Sharpe watches him close, slowly tilts his head like he's attempting to peer closer. It makes Matthew feel _watched_ , and it sends chills up his spine.

"If you heard me, then I don't really need to explain, I suppose." Matthew tries, hoping for some sort of break.

The smirk widens.

"Nah, I think I definitely want to hear why a man of the cloth wants to be put on his knees. And we got the little matter of payment to discuss."

"What" Matthew says, gamely intent on ignoring that first part, "kind of payment."

"I'm hungry, too." Sharpe shrugs, "But I ain't feeding without permission 'n' all. I'm respectful like that."

“Mighty chivalrous of you.” Matthew stands awkwardly in the middle of the room. He could pull a chair up, but that feels like the wrong move. He could sit on his bed, but that feels even more wrong.

Somehow, the floor seems his best option. On his knees. Once the thought enters his head, he can’t make it go away, though he tries until it echoes so loud behind his eyes that Sharpe must hear it because he smiles.

“Go on, Rev.” Sharpe nods at the wooden floor. “We can talk eye to eye.”

Matthew slowly, slowly drops to his knees. His eyes fall closed when he lands, but he doesn’t sit on his heels.

“Come closer.” Sharpe says and, without opening his eyes, Matthew drags his knees forward until he feels a hand on his shoulder, stopping his advance. “Open your eyes.”

Matthew opens his eyes. Sharpe is right in front of him, knees spread to make room for Matthew’s figure between them.

“Now, back to business.” Sharpe drawls, “I don’t feed without consent. You want what I do to feed.”

“Yes.” Matthew says quietly. He doesn’t want to fight, not right now, not anymore. He’s tired. Deadwood and it’s burnt up faith have already dragged him so low and it’s only been a matter of days, barely weeks. He just wants...peace.

“Think we’ve got a deal, reverend? I’ll scratch your itch, you scratch mine?”

-

“Yes. A deal.”

-

Clayton Sharpe smiles.

-

Matthew is _known_.

-

He feels the peace. It follows him, after. Keeps his shoulders relaxed and the genuine smile on his scarred face.

And when it begins to fade, Sharpe shows up in his church again, now-familiar footfalls on the wooden floorboards. He seems stronger, lately, looser. It brings a secret pleasure to Matthew, to know that it is _him_ that helps to make that possible for Sharpe.

-

It’s a pattern he could get used to. A pattern he finds that he wants to get used to. One he’d be happy with.

-

Deadwood allows a lot of things. Corruption, damnation, the occasional miracle. But it does not allow happy. Not for long.


End file.
